Part 8: The Horseman and the Elf
by FerretKid
Summary: When someone is not who you assumed they were… And when your mind is not your own...
1. Horsemen Cometh: Reality Bites

**Disclaimer:** I have zero rights to any of the characters created for Highlander: The Series. They are wholly owned by Davis-Panzer and are borrowed through their good will. Amy Allan and her brothers are mine. Or, I'm theirs, whichever that works out to be. No money is being made by me whatsoever in posting these stories of mine.

 **Story Note:** _italics_ \- the direct thoughts of the character  
[bracket italics] - remembered conversations that come from all previous stories and/or chapters 

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**The Horseman and the Elf - Reality Bites**

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An open-handed slap on her face snapped Amy's head sideways and made her eyes rattle. Tasting blood, she glared through the tears, squinting in the noon sun, but could see nothing but the hand coming to slap her again. Sand burned her hands and legs when she fell, then someone picked her up by her dress and played a knife blade down her jaw until it disappeared and sharp fire exploded in her side.

In the dim bathroom, Amy stood wide-eyed in the shower, leaning against the wall, legs trembling, and breath coming in short pants. _The bloody hell?_ There was no blood. This was reality. This, with warm water running down her back, through her hair, into her gasping mouth. What was the other?

A hand lifted her by the neck, squeezing until her vision dimmed, and everything but the eyes in front of her vanished.

The floor vibrated gently against her feet - the elevator was coming up. Through the noise of the water voices faintly floated to her ears; Mac and Methos returning from the t.v. studios. Amy shook her head, trying to dislodge the ghosts of the strange vision in her head. She pushed it aside; she could ask Peter his thoughts later.

She was on her back in the sand, rough hands pushing her legs apart, fear freezing her into immobility. She was standing under the water, holding onto the wall, using it as an anchor. She was in a tent, falling to the ground after being punched, then he was on her, driving a knife into her gut. A scream of pain ripped from her throat and she died as he raped her again. In rapid succession it repeated - beaten, raped, killed - a process meant to destroy her will, her self. The pain became too much to bear, wave upon wave and no recovery time in between. Burning sun, scorching sand, blood. A confused mass of sight, sound, the overwhelming pain, and so much more. Impossible that it was real, too real to be a dream.

A crash, and she was in the shower, on her knees with water pouring over her back, dripping around her eyes and mouth as she panted, heart pounding, stomach clenching, and no idea what had just happened or how long she had been gone.

"Amy!" Mac ripped the curtain out of the way. He had kicked his own bathroom door down and bent to haul her out of the tub.

"I'm fine! I'm fine! I'll be out in a minute." She waved him off furiously with one hand, covering herself with the other, and desperately wishing she possessed the gift of invisibility.

"But you've been screaming…"

"Get out!" Satisfied he'd left, she finished rinsing, dressed before she dried, and escaped the bathroom with all possible speed. The tall woman next to Mac, with her perfect dark hair and immaculate makeup, was a stranger and an irrational swell of hate rolled through Amy. Another wave of psychic assault beat against her hastily reinforced mental barriers - shadows trying to overtake the real world - and Amy realized this stranger was the source and hated her more for it. She had to get out of there before it came crashing through again.

"Amy, this is Cassandra —" Mac began.

"You," Amy snarled. "Can you not be polite enough to shut your head off when you're around other people?" She threw the strap of her duffel over her head, snagged her water bottle off the desk where she had left it, and headed for the door.

"Amy, wait!"

"No, Mac. It's bad enough with you tromping through my head occasionally, and I am not staying around and letting her scream her crap through me. You let me know when she's gone, and I'll see you again." The noise from the door slamming behind her, combined with her feet pounding down the stairs was much more satisfying to Amy than the elevator's sedate decent.


	2. Horsemen Cometh: Crash

**The Horseman and the Elf -**

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Methos heard the urgent tapping just before a voice called through the door, "Hey, Adam, you there?"

He tossed his book on the chair, hurried to the door to open it. "I thought you'd still be at the dojo."

Amy stepped past without making eye contact. "Yeah, well, a lady friend of Mac's showed up, so I left."

He raised his eyebrows at her back. He'd never once heard her with so much loathing in her voice. After joining her in the front room, Methos motioned for her to sit, but she didn't seem able. "You don't usually hate his…friends."

"This one seems to be somewhat telepathic. She can't keep her thoughts to herself and I'm having trouble blocking her."

Amy hugged herself and shuddered, but didn't stop pacing the floor. From his perch on a chair arm, Methos watched and waited for Amy to to work through whatever drove her to pace around his apartment. Purple ringed her eyes, she stumbled at least twice, but her fingers continued tapping against her arms in a rapid beat and she didn't seem capable of stopping herself. He frowned, once more in unfamiliar territory. "Immortal?"

"I don't…maybe… I just don't really know."

She had once described what sitting through a Quickening felt like - having another person's memories play through her mind like a movie. Based on past admission, her current behavior puzzled him. _Quickenings_. He considered how familiar her overall behavior would be if she were Immortal, and not Elf. Amy had excess energy racing through her system, almost as if she had taken a Quickening, and he knew the fastest way to get rid of it. Amy would likely realize it very soon. Methos stood and after a brief stretch, when into the kitchen, pulled a can of Coke from the fridge, and held it out, knowing she would follow.

Amy took the can and continued her pacing along the cabinets. "Oh saints above, the memories. I can't sort them out or make them quit demanding attention. This is - " As she passed Methos, he took back the can and replaced it with a beer bottle.

"If this is what Quickenings are like…" Coming back to the fridge, Amy stopped and banged her forehead on the freezer door. "If this is what happens during a Quickening, I don't envy any of you."

 _Got it in one_. It was not a good time for them to be alone together. The results could be very - well, regrettable. Enjoyable in the moment, but potentially regrettable. "Beer."

"Huh?" Amy looked at Methos, puzzled.

"The beer. Drink it." He pointed at her hand.

"Oh." Amy stared blankly at the bottle. "Okay." Absently setting it down behind her, she wandered back towards the living room.

Methos took one step and gripped her shoulders to make her look at him. "Are you going to be all right?"

"Yes. Eventually." She took a gasping breath and let it out slowly. "This is just a lot more...intense than...well, anything. Ever."

Intense. Methos felt himself respond, wanting nothing more at that second than to show her what could be done with intense. He trailed his fingers down her arms; forced himself to stop at her elbows.

Amy shook her head dismissively and rubbed her eyes. "I just - I needed… I don't know what I need. I'll be fine after I can process it, I'm sure. It's just a big mess running through my head right now."

He brushed a piece of hair off her face and saw a flash in her eyes. Could it be his imagination that her eyes reflected a gold light from his? Methos was acutely aware she had frozen under his hands. Her green eyes darkened, narrowed. Methos bent his head and brushed her lips with his, threading his fingers into her hair. Amy pulled his face closer, returning his kiss with shocking intensity and when he trailed his lips along the curve of her jaw, she made a sound in the back of her throat that undid him.

They moved in concert, a rush of hands and need, uneven breaths and kissing. Fingers digging into arms and thighs, teeth scraping shoulders, ears, whatever skin could be reached, no thought, no plan, no reason; want alone drove them. Amy shoved Methos' sweater over his head, nearly tearing it off him. He easily slipped her baggy Oxford over her head and dropped it somewhere. Amy fumbled with his belt and fly, sighing happily, almost purring, while his kisses traced her collar bone and his fingers massaged her thighs. She paused to giggle at Methos when her armor stopped him cold. She stepped back and stood just out of reach, showing him the minuscule fasteners by undoing each one herself, her eyes never leaving his.

Methos felt his fingers twitch and his heart pound. He might go mad if she had more than a few fasteners remaining, but he held himself still until, with a sly smile, Amy undid the final latch and her armor slid to the floor and pooled at her feet. She stood before him; smooth skin and puckered scars, pale and tan, small and fierce with well-honed muscles, unafraid and challenging. When she lifted her eyebrow, he stepped forward and pulled her to him, burying his face in her neck before tracing the curve of her breast with his tongue. Amy's breath hissed between her teeth and with little effort she wrapped her legs around his waist and held herself against him, no space allowed. Methos' fingers dug into her hips as he bore her weight and turned for his bedroom.

With their frantic need sated, they lay entwined together, limbs, tangled hair, knotted sheets, fingers drifting over sweat-slick skin. Methos chuckled at an unbidden thought and Amy lifted her head to look at him. "What is it?"

He smiled down at her, "I just realized you didn't explode into rainbows and colored lights. Does this mean the magic is gone?"

"I'd say not," she teased, "based on what just happened." She lazily trailed her tongue along his jaw and her fingers slid along the edge of his hip bone.

Methos shifted around until he could study Amy closely. He didn't like the deep purple rings under her eyes, or the way her breath still came in panting gasps. "Do you know why that happened? Or didn't this time?"

Amy curled into his arms and rested her head in such a way she could nuzzle at his neck and breathe his scent. "No. Nobody I can ask."

"Sorry."

Amy shrugged slightly and tried to pull him to her. Methos caught her hand and held it instead. "Later. At least catch your breath." He smiled at her soft snort and glanced at his watch. They had been longer than he thought. He didn't want to leave, but he had obligations. He tightened his embrace, then bent his head for a lingering kiss. "I have to go to the university. Just for a while. Sleep, and I'll be back."

Calloused fingertips traced along his jaw and she smiled at him, her eyes struggling to stay open. Methos eased out from under her, pulled the sheet up to her chin, and dressed. Before leaving, he pulled a key he'd had cut a few days before from his pocket, and sat next to Amy on the bed. With a feather touch on her shoulder, he pulled her from her doze and showed her the key. "It's here on the table. Use it when you need to." He smiled at her shock and kissed her lips.

Methos stopped in the doorway to look back at Amy, pale curves and blonde hair against dark sheets, and, apparently, his. Something else had changed. Something in Amy. By looks and words, she was still herself, but the way she moved against him was different than before, and at times during their rush, he had felt a whisper of… Anger? Yes, anger. Anger and defiance whispered the back of his mind and echoed in her eyes. The former, he could explain away as the shyness of their first night disappearing with their second, but the latter he couldn't account for and it bothered him. From the pillow, already nearly asleep, she smiled a promise to be waiting when he returned late in the night. And in the end, perhaps that promise was all that really mattered.


	3. Horsemen Cometh: Death Before Me

Amy groaned and buried her face against the light. The scent of Adam rose from the pillows and surrounded her as she opened her eyes, confused and off balance. She sat up on the bed and found herself taken over by a blurred mass of images and sensation - and she had to sort out which came from her own memory and which had come from the witch. She remembered MacLeod and his friend looking at her, concerned by her outburst and along with that memory, a wave of hate so thick she could almost hold it washed over her again. She quickly switched her focus to a different moment of the day before. She remembered knocking on Adam's door, and as if the memory of him were a power in itself, her own memories strengthened, overcoming the false, and the previous night came back, sharp and clear.

A wanton smile spread across her face. The evening before was not a dream. The night with Adam was not in her imagination, but Adam was not in his bed. Amy wrapped herself in the sheet and padded out into the apartment. Adam was not in his apartment. A weight settled in her stomach and her hand trembled against the kitchen counter. She forced herself to not focus on the horrifying possibilities, and instead focus on finding her clothes, tossed carelessly about, getting dressed, and forming a coherent plan. First, a fast stop at her tiny apartment to check for messages and clean clothes, then to the dojo, sure MacLeod would help her, or at least provide suggestions.

The dojo brought only more problems. She ran in the building, anxiety overcoming sense, and ran into a nightmare. As she burst through the double doors, sharp pain stabbed over her right eyebrow, and she caught a glimpse of Cassandra and Adam facing each other across a weight bench, Adam's hands in the air, a sword waving at his neck.

"Sonofabitch!" Amy grabbed her head as the explosion of agony sent her to the floor. She tried to throw herself backwards, back through the doors, but the world tilted, and the dojo faded. She cried out in desperation, reaching, trying to cling to the terrifying reality of the wood floor and yelling and the sword waving around. Her try failed and she drowned in the memories assaulting all of her senses.

Cruel eyes stared into hers as the man with the blue face pressed himself between her legs. His stringy, black hair brushed across her face and she retched. Gold eyes glittered with cruel amusement and her chest exploded in pain when the knife slipped between her ribs and into her heart. Amy jerked back to the floor of the dojo, panting and sick, forced to recognize the painted face of her - no, not hers, Cassandra's - nightmares. Gold eyes. Cold eyes. Hazel eyes with amber and gold and death flecked throughout. Hard edged face, prominent nose, all covered in blue paint, and all the same.

Adam.

Methos.

It wasn't fair, she didn't want so much knowledge. She didn't want the new reality. She struggled to push the memory of pain and the living fear aside and remain in the real world. The solid one, the one where Adam was yelling, "it wasn't me, MacLeod!" while dodging the sword leveled at his chest.

But it really was him, and she knew the truth.

 _[Worse yet even a lover may betray you.]_

The memories forced her to see him, feel his fists, struggle underneath his weight, and die over and over by his hand.

Not her! Cassandra!

An invisible fist landed a blow on her jaw that made her teeth rattle and the sand and sun pulled her in again. Amy curled onto her knees and huddled on the dojo floor, gasping and begging Dagda to return her to sanity. Distantly, she heard Duncan yelling. A hand touched her arm and she jerked away from the man responsible for her captivity and pain.

"Amy?"

The whisper of a comforting presence, a voice she knew, made it through the vision trying to claim her. A face came to focus through the haze. The face at the center of her nightmares. He had slaughtered her people. He was responsible for her years in slavery. He began the cycle of death, rebirth, and torture that held her trapped. He began the years of pain. HE.

NOT ME! HER!

Duncan held a struggling Cassandra and Amy fought for control of her own mind. Unable to get up, unwilling to ask Adam to wait, she waved weakly and croaked out, "Go. Just go!" His boots disappeared from view, she heard the street door crash open, then the rushed steps of Cassandra's high heels passing by, and with her came another wave of pain and memory.

As soon as Cassandra reached the sidewalk, Amy found she had a moment of clarity and quickly rebuilt her mental shields, sacrificing physical strength for the quiet she could gain. Once she felt she could stand, she accepted MacLeod's help up from the floor, leaning on him more than she liked. "Mac, do me a favor. Call me when she leaves town. Better yet, get her out of town before I kill her!"

"What is going on with you?"

Amy pulled free of his grip and refused to answer. The flash of guilt at treating Mac so poorly was buried by the surge of anger as Cassandra re-entered the building. As quickly as her feet would carry her and with only a small stagger and a suppressed cough, Amy shouldered rudely past the Cassandra and hurried to follow Methos to his apartment.

Driving from the dojo to Methos' apartment had never taken so long, but foreign memories threatening to become full-blown flashbacks made Amy a cautious driver. Discovering he wasn't home, had her seriously considering sitting in the corner and crying in frustration. Her grasp on reality was tenuous at best, which she didn't understand since Cassandra was no where near. Her hands and legs trembled out of control, and she honestly didn't feel much stronger than a newborn. To go anywhere else would be too dangerous, so, remembering she had been given a key, she let herself in and collapsed. Breathing felt like small knives scratching her lungs; something was wrong, but she pushed it aside, refusing to dwell on that.

As she lay still, the memories settled and faded, finally separating from reality. The few times anything similar had happened in the past, it had been preceded by massive outpourings of psychic energy which overwhelmed her shields, allowing the following memories to enter. More, it had never taken more than a few minutes to fade to the background, not to mention she had never once had difficulty sorting another's memory from her own life. How could she function if this were her new reality? If the memories could break through without Cassandra's presence, how would she stay sane?

 _[Right here, right now, sitting in front of me is Adam Pierson. What else do I need to know?]_

The words of a foolish, infatuated child! From the beginning, she'd had a vague feeling there was something dark hiding in Methos, showing itself in the flashes in his eyes, calling to the darkness in her on a subconscious level. What a great mistake it had been to assume his was so much like the darkness she wrestled within herself and give it no further consideration.

It turned out she had been right. And she had been so very, very wrong.

 _[Are you a threat to me?]_

 _[A friend may betray you. Everyone should be considered a threat.]_

Could it be there is such a thing as a darkness too great to escape? Was Adam Pierson just a fine veneer on top of a monster, a convenient covering? Amy felt the tears roll down her cheeks as the thought passed through her mind; the ramifications if it were the truth were truly terrifying to contemplate. Adam - Methos - had not been a killer because he was a warrior or because he was trapped. He had not worked to maintain a particular code of honor in his life, and she had been aware of that. She had seen the light of bloodlust that lived in his eyes. How could she have assumed so much and so poorly? And now what? He had not only killed, but raped and decimated for joy. Because he could. What should she do with this new information? What _could_ she do?

The only thing she could know for certain was her desperate need to stay away from _that_ woman. She would have to avoid Mac, and likely Joe, until Cassandra decided to leave town. Amy groaned and sniffed while wiping her eyes. The witch was not likely to leave until she claimed her revenge. But what if Amy's biggest problem was actually her inability to function without becoming so short of breath? Or perhaps being incapable of maintaining her mental defenses. Or staying awake. _What on earth is wrong with me?_

She fell asleep mid-thought.

A small noise disrupted Amy's unsettling dream, puling her back to fuzzy wakefulness in the dim light and soft pillows of Adam's apartment. The whisper of his presence grounded her, providing the final tug out of a near-nightmare into reality. Opening her eyes, she returned his gaze and wished she could read past the blankness in his eyes.

He spoke first. "You can't be here."

"Where else am I supposed be?" _[…a friend may betray you…]_

"Amy, I…."

 _[…even a lover…]_ She pushed up, wrapped her arms around her knees, and refused to shrink from his gaze. "Just tell me." _[Are you a threat to me?]_ "Please," she whispered. _Please tell me I wasn't wrong_. _[You trust too easily]_ Did he flinch?

With closed eyes Adam answered, "His name is Kronos."

Even a hard swallow couldn't stop the tremor in her voice. "He won't let you walk away, will he?"

"He's already demanded I take MacLeod's head."

"If you can't walk away, then fight! Fight to keep what you've built —" She was desperate to not let go. Desperate enough to try to make him react like she was would: rashly, choosing physical action over a planned, strategic response and the infuriating delays it would cause.

"I can't!" He snarled.

Amy pulled back in shock as he jumped up and towered over her, radiating rage in terrible coils that twisted in rhythm with his hands as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

He continued, his face twisted with his anger, "And if you were half as smart as you think you are, you child, you will leave here and quit trying to pretend to be immortal!"

Amy stood, slowly unfolding herself, rising to her full five foot four. Her eyes snapped and she drew a breath to retort, but the razors scratched her throat and she wound up bent over, coughing through a strange, smothering thickness instead. When the spasm stopped and she could open her eyes, she saw Adam staring at her with the same clinical stare Peter used. She snapped at him. "What?"

"How long has that been going on?"

"What does it matter to you? You're running away!" Amy found herself suddenly gripped around the throat, lifted until her toes left the floor, forced to look into his glittering gold eyes.

"You ran off once because of some foolish idea that you had to protect me. Like I haven't spent _eons_ surviving before you came along!" He sneered. "I am leaving. And why or where is none of your concern."

The air whistled in her throat as instinctively, futilely Amy clawed at his hands, trying to peel his iron fingers away.

Methos' grip tightened. "Go back to your brothers and your ranch and your fantasy world, and quit trying to play with the grownups!" With a shake, he released Amy and she fell to the floor where she stayed, wheezing like a broken accordion. He stomped across the room and started pulling clothes out of the closet, shoving them into a large duffel bag and ignoring her.

Amy couldn't have imagined a more humiliating exit if she'd tried - having to wait for the end of a coughing fit before she could get up and try to salvage her ego by stomping out. She pushed off the floor and stood staring at his back, watching his shoulders shift and roll as he grabbed items and dropped them in his bags. She tried to read what his muscles could tell her, but as usual his loose sweater hid him far too well. Methos wrapped himself in anger so thick, she couldn't feel anything else coming from him. Giving up on trying to figure out what was going on in his head, she got out before she started sniffling and made her humiliation worse.

She held her composure in the elevator, but at the lobby she had to duck into a bathroom. When time and cold water had taken most of the red from her eyes and nose, she stepped out of the front door with no idea what to do, and she didn't like the feeling. She always knew what to do. Most of the time.

"Did you kill all those people?" Mac's angry voice carried across the pavement and she froze.

"Dammit, Mac! Adam!" She heard the shrill panic in her voice, but it couldn't be helped. She knew what they could do to each other. It was unthinkable to her that either would go so far, but she couldn't allow any heads to be lost. Waves of raw emotions rolled off both men, pushing against Amy's barriers and drowning out any chance of catching the whispers of their thoughts. Amy's hands trembled and her knees felt weak. The quantity and volume coming from the men was too much to process and the effort drained her.

Methos' voice came, defiant, confirming himself what she had admitted to herself earlier. "Killing was all I knew." But the laugh, that half-psychotic giggle. Amy shuddered, for the first time feeling, deeply knowing precisely how much he had reveled in the destruction and blood. She closed her eyes but it didn't stop his words. "I was death." The words coiled in her ears and through her brain, echoing with a bass beat, calling up Cassandra's memories once more, playing them like a movie against the screen of her eyelids. Amy clapped her hands over her mouth and finally admitted to herself that Cassandra's memories were real. Cassandra had, indeed, lived through the monstrous truth Amy had finally begun to admit must be. She could see the golden light of Death in Methos' eyes and feel waves of triumph he'd loved so much, even as he'd trampled the world underfoot.

The vague suspicion she had harbored from the beginning was nothing compared to the reality. _Then, not now. Then, not now. Then, not now._ A new mantra running through her head. She tried to believe it. She was desperate to believe it.

"Is that what you want to hear? The answer is yes." Methos said, "Oh, yes."

"No, no, no..." she whispered behind her hands as tears rolled down her cheeks again. She was losing him.

And not to Kronos. To the monster inside himself.

 _[Everyone should be considered a threat.]_

"We're through."

Amy felt the very air tear apart at Duncan's softly spoken words before he turned and walked away. Not to his own car. She muttered under her breath. He had apparently paid just enough attention when she'd yelled and now he stomped over and grabbed her elbow, pulling her towards his Thunderbird. "Come on, we're out of here."

"NO! Duncan MacLeod, let me go, or I swear I'll cut your arms off!" She cursed herself for being so weak that she couldn't pull away from his grip. She tried to yank again and again, unsuccessful in gaining anything more than a brief glimpse of Adam standing alone by his truck. He held his chin high, the stony cast in his eyes far more frightening than any words he had spoken in the last day. Amy tried to yell, desperate for a reaction, any reaction. "Adam!" Her cry pushed out, not as a yell, but as a harsh whisper he couldn't have heard. Mac dropped her in the front seat and then made her slide over so he could get behind the wheel and slam his door.

Adam never moved.


	4. Death in All I see

**Story Note:** As usual, italics inside [ ] are remembered conversations from before

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 **The Horseman and the Elf - Death in All I See**

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 **AMY**

A dark mass of colors swirled around the tall man with the tattooed face; chaos in aura matching the chaos in his mind. Black pulled away from the man and reached toward her. Pure black, deep black, empty. Evil distilled to pure essence and tied to the creature it surrounded. Familiar Black, hungry, seeking. Seeking her. The same Black which had taken her beloved Oncle. The same Black which later had tried to pry into her mind and steal her soul. Through the shadow, in front of reality, images moved as if ghosts danced before her eyes. Ghosts of torture, death, war, killing. Ghosts of the past. The man before her, responsible for every vision, every memory of his passing before her eyes. And with his memories came the hunger for more. More blood, more screams, more pain, more death. Delight in death. Glee at having a diversion hanging in front of him.

The Black stretched closer to her while its host sang to himself and bent over his table of tools. She couldn't bear to have the Black touch her again, not after so many years of avoiding it. Her mental shields were too feeble this time, her reserves gone. Her stomach rolled, her mind babbled in panic. Reason left, instinct took over, and Amy screamed and kicked against the chains, straining her joints and tearing her skin.

The man stepped through the Black and slapped her. Slapped her so hard that her head snapped sideways, crashing into the chain holding her right wrist high. Black exploded into white light and the visions vanished, allowing for a brief moment of clarity.

"You call me!" Joe had yelled at her as she drove away from him with an absent wave. At that time she didn't want to take a chance of having to deal with Mac and, especially, Cassandra. At this time, Amy realized how foolish that idea had been. It had seemed so simple. Take the information Joe gave her and hop a faster flight, arriving in France ahead of Mac and the witch. Follow the ghost of Adam's presence and determine what, exactly, he had chosen to do, still praying he wasn't lost. Instead, she was lost - lost in a miasma of dark and pain and hunger; thousands of years worth threatening to overwhelm and bury her in a sea of chaos. How much time had passed since Joe yelled at her? She had no way of knowing. In the rare times her mind was hers alone she had tried to guess and had been forced to give up when the resulting headache became too much to bear.

The scar-faced one appeared briefly, grabbing her jaw with rough fingers and the flash of clarity became overwhelmed by the shadows and panic once more. His sneer frightened her beyond reason even though he didn't have the blackness living in him like the other did. She twisted, trying to pull her face away, headless of the angry scowl and words she couldn't comprehend. His fist rose, fresh pain exploded just beside her eye, and darkness took over.

 **METHOS**

Methos stepped into the room and his blood ran cold. Kronos and Silas, standing off to the side, were as usual, but Caspian… Caspian was humming as he stood next to a table, smiling at its contents. Caspian hadn't looked so happy since Kronos had let him loose on the doctor and nurse in Romania. Methos swallowed back a sudden bubble of bile as he watched Caspian run his fingers over cold metal tools as if they were the body of his lover, smiling while he considered where to start with his new toy.

She was supposed to be in the States, on her ranch, recuperating from the cold and whatever psychic issues Cassandra had triggered. Chains hung from the ceiling and Amy hung from the chains, bruises forming on her face and down her arms. She took no notice of Methos, or the other two for that matter. Her head hung down and hair, falling from her short braid, covered her face like a veil.

"Brother!" Kronos exclaimed, noticing Methos' arrival almost immediately. "Come see what Silas found sneaking around outside!"

Methos swallowed again and stepped into the room. "And what is that?" He gave himself a mental pat on the back for keeping his voice disinterested, his slouch no different than usual.

"She claims to work for Greenpeace. I don't happen to believe her."

Methos sighed and leaned against Caspian's work table, making himself the apex of a triangle of he, Kronos, and Amy. "Did you consider she might be telling the truth, Kronos?"

"For a moment. And then I thought, what better way to be certain than to let Caspian have a little fun with her?"

With a laugh, Caspian chose a particularly nasty hook bladed knife and started toward Amy with a leer. Methos stood still, glued to his perch.

 **AMY**

Amy lifted her head when the tattooed man laughed and locked her eyes on his back, willing defiance to settle on her features. She wouldn't fight yet. Couldn't.

Yet.

Being knocked out for a brief time seemed to have somewhat reset her head, allowing for clearer thought, but she still struggled to hold onto the character she had created for herself. They couldn't know what she was capable of until there was no choice - or an opportunity presented itself as such. Amy prayed that it would come quickly. With her body forcing her to choose between mental shields and physical strength, she had opted for strength, knowing it would mean having chaos running rampant with no ties to hold her to reality. Her psychic tracking had been a busting success which also left her so drained she had been easily overwhelmed by the chaos in the head of the tattooed monster.

Now, watery visions of his ideas flickered through her mind and underneath that, Cassandra's memories of him flashed, making Amy feel like a sick Nouveau Noir Horror film fest was flashing through her mind and she worried about her ability to hold out against, let alone survive, the monster with long, black hair. Panic reared once more, threatening to dictate her actions, and she used precious time to shove it back in place, into a back corner where Pain had already been forced, so she could concentrate on maintaining the face of an angry girl with no idea what was coming at her. A warm voice drifted through the mental noise; hope sparked and the hazy images retreated for a breath of time, then the scar-faced one spoke and shards of ice ran through her bones. The dark one's incessant humming buzzed through her ears, echoed inside her head, and combined with the nightmares playing behind her eyes. Amy wondered if the madness would prove to be contagious.

It seemed like an eternity in hell, waiting for him to choose, waiting to see what he would actually do. He turned toward her with a leer that made Amy afraid in a way she rarely felt and the images from Cassandra's memories grew clearer. The time to choose had arrived.

The monster reached the critical position. Amy snapped her feet together, just as she had practiced thousands of times over the years. A thin, curving blade popped from from the toe of her left boot and she kicked his ribs with all the strength she could rally. It was enough. A red welt appeared behind the slash in his shirt and her tormentor doubled over in surprise and pain, putting his head almost exactly where she wished. She kicked again, yelling as the cuffs bit into her wrists. He jerked, and instead of his neck, the scalpel sharp blade neatly opened his cheek, exposing bone. He staggered away and Amy wasted no time in twisting her body and wrists until she grabbed the chains holding her and started pulling up.

Fear and adrenaline gave her strength, boosted by pulling in a touch of energy, as Amy pulled herself up link by link, desperate to get away while she had the presence of mind to do so. A crushing pain at her ankle brought her to a halt and she screamed in frustration, kicking and jerking her legs, reaching with the razor blade. The vise around her boot wouldn't let go, though she felt the blade connect with something. Weight dragged her down, threatening to undo the progress she had made up the chains and she yelled in frustration. The yell turned to a shrill scream as pain lanced out from her shoulder. Her damned left shoulder. Amy couldn't afford to let go, she had to use both hands to fight against the drag on her feet trying to pull her back into the pit of Hell.

The world ended, not with a mighty explosion, but with a pop and white strobes behind her eyes as she lost her grip. Lost the fight to get away. Lost the fight to keep her own mind.

 **METHOS**

Methos stayed at the table, gripping the edge and clenching his jaw. He stayed while Caspian approached Amy, blade raised and ready. He stayed though Amy's eyes screamed for help. He stayed when Caspian staggered away, shirt and face a mass of blood that would heal in a moment. A quick glance at Kronos showed him smiling at the twist in his game. Methos stayed at the table while Amy tried to climb her chains and Silas jumped forward with a roar to stop her, wrapped his enormous hands around her ankles and pulled. Her flashing razor blade scored several hits on his hands and head and blood flowed. Weary of being cut, Silas used his weight against Amy, wrapping his arms around both her legs in an unbreakable bear hug before simply bending his knees and letting his bulk yank her down, the links of the chain tearing at her skin. With a scream that echoed around the room, Amy lost hold and fell.

Methos stayed at the table, Kronos stayed at the wall, laughing with delight. When Amy lost her grip, Kronos put his hand to a button and pushed. The chains slackened when she screamed and she fell past Silas to the concrete floor with a sickening thud. Caspian rushed in with his blades, eager for payback, and Amy disappeared under both men and their fists.

Methos waded into the confusion with a prayer to every deity he had come across in his life. Getting one hand each on the necks of both men, he pulled them off Amy and shoved them towards opposite sides of the room.

 **AMY**

The blows ceased for a blessed moment, but then the cold concrete floor disappeared and a wave of vertigo took away her sense of space. Silvery blue light teased her eyes and drove away the hungry blackness. She saw a vaguely familiar face. She pushed ineffectively against the hands gripping her shirt. She saw a blessedly familiar face and his beautiful blue light. The warmth of his presence lapped against her awareness, pushing against the confusion clouding her mind, and though clarity eluded her, she felt comfort wash over her entire being.

She needed to remember something, but it was so hard. She fought the blackness gathering at the edge of her vision. She wanted to call his name; she mustn't blow his cover. Why would he have a cover? She opened her mouth, hesitated, couldn't find her voice, tried again, couldn't remember his name. Her lips worked, trying to say the name that slipped away from her mind. _What is the secret? What cover? I mustn't blow his cover. I need his help. I have to save him._ The warm hazel eyes turned cold, yellow flashed, and all became black.

 **METHOS**

Methos watched Amy's eyes moving from madness to sanity and back in mere seconds. He raised a fist and, before she had a chance to voice the name he saw forming on her lips, slammed it into her temple.

"Brother! You have a soft spot for this one, too?" Kronos cackled from where he stood at the side of the room.

"No," Methos sneered in return. He dropped Amy to the floor and turned to face Kronos. "If you bothered to pay attention to the news, you would have known she was telling you the truth. She is a well known activist, but she's also from a powerful family. We are not strong enough to confront them directly yet, and if you give her to Caspian now, they will crush us before your plans are ready."

"Then what do you suggest we do with her?"

Methos knew he was being tested. "Hold on to her. When her family is weakened in the coming chaos, they can have her back. For a price."

Kronos' sly grin spread slowly as he considered the options she presented. He nodded quickly to Silas. "Put her in a cage. We'll do as Methos suggests."

* * *

 _[_ _Inside, you're still there, Methos. You're like me.]_

"Not anymore," he muttered as he had that day. Funny how one day changed everything. He had lived so differently for so long, he couldn't still be the same, could he? He had realized long, long ago that there was no real joy in killing, no satisfaction, only a great black hole that demanded more and more blood. But sometimes it still called to him, as Amy had insisted and he had denied. He tried to pretend she was wrong, but on some level, their darker natures recognized each other and drew together.

 _[Tell me you haven't missed it! The freedom! The power! Knowing their weapons and their gods are useless against you. That you're the last thing they'll ever see!]_

Methos had remembered. He had buried that part of himself deeply, but with Kronos right there, his goading a background whisper to the memory, it was so easy to hear the screams, smell the sand, the horses, the blood. It was so very familiar, it was like coming home. Dear gods, it could still arouse him, just as it once had so long ago. He remembered the feel as blood sprayed on his face and his clothes. He remembered the taste. Shuddering, just as he had _that_ day - the day Kronos found him - he tried to push the dark monster back into the hole he'd forced it to inhabit for so long. He tried to remind himself of what he had become and what he had done in the years since, but it was so hard.

And it remained hard. To keep his life he had to go along with Kronos. To go along with Kronos meant losing his life. And here was Amy, dropped right in the middle of everything. "Please," she had begged in his apartment, not so long ago. Stubborn, overly-loyal, exasperating, and unplanned for. Another variable that had to be accounted for as the pieces moved each other.

Kronos wouldn't let him leave their old ways, Amy wouldn't listen and keep herself out of the way. What a mess. Methos sloshed through the water to the small concrete and iron cage, unlocked the door, and laid a blanket out on the floor. He awkwardly shifted Amy's prone form from the concrete to the blanket. Another blanket went over her and he hoped her shivering would stop, though he doubted anything he could do any time soon would help. Amy coughed, a nasty, thick cough and Methos winced. The cold or asthma, whatever it was, she'd been fighting in the States had worsened. She murmured, shuddered, coughed again, and settled back down. Methos sighed and left the cage, careful to lock it before sloshing away.

In the dim light, Amy's face betrayed no particular emotion as she struggled to draw breath. She sat in the corner, cocooned in both blankets and still shivering. She rested her head against the bars and wire mesh that made her prison. A pained chuckle wheezed out of her throat. "What a way to finally get to know a person, huh?" Deep, wet-sounding, coughing took over as she fought for every bit of oxygen to draw in.

Methos forced himself to remain still. Forced himself to not remember Alexa coughing and gasping for air in her final hours. His fingers reflexively gripped the bars. "I never meant—"

"Neither did I," she managed to whisper. "But isn't that how it always goes?"

"You have pneumonia, don't you?"

Amy closed her eyes. "I didn't exactly stop for an exam on the way here."

"What were you thinking?" He hissed into cage.

"Brother!" Silas' voice echoed down from above. "Kronos wants you."

Methos growled in frustration and slammed his hand against the bars. He sloshed through the cold water quickly, leaving Amy alone in the dark.

 **AMY**

"Sade," Amy whispered, "es-tu diabolique ou divin?" She didn't mind the alone and the quiet. Alone meant she had her head to herself. Alone meant a time of sanity, though she had no way to mark how much time had passed since her capture. The effort to track Methos had been as bad as she feared, requiring so much effort and allowing in so many voices during her travels she had no energy to rebuild proper mental shields or maintain physical strength as her illness drained her. The thin razors scratching away at her lungs had become knives, stabbing deeply through her ribs with every breath. Worse, she couldn't gather the focus or presence of mind to reach out to her brothers for help. Alone meant being able to stay still, no shields required, no drawing in energy to give herself strength. But alone meant… alone.

She shifted herself around, moaned as pain from the torn tendons in her shoulder lanced out in a web from neck to waist. Amy couldn't find a position where the pain faded to the background, and so settled for a dull roar over stabbing shockwaves. Her mind wandered; she jerked awake with visions of being raped. No, Cassandra, not her. Cassandra being raped and killed. Time became a meaningless construct marked only by water lapping against the concrete space on which she sat. No sun, no sky, only concrete and water, no tie to anchor her self. Methos didn't return. She slept, she dreamed, she woke. The process repeated again. The water lapped, the light remained unchanged. She drifted on tides, dreaming of faces she should know, but couldn't name. Whispers teased her ears and she felt more like a shade than a human in the moments she felt anything at all. How much time had passed since she had been caged? How much time had passed since her arrival? Days? Years? Or could it have been only hours and she had weeks remaining before there could be any hope of rescue?

Yelling, angry female and a wave of hate pulled Amy from her fitful, fevered doze. Again lying on the cold, bare concrete, she cracked her eyes open to a sideways world, where a mohawked giant carried a dark-haired bundle over his shoulder. The witch screamed once, kicked, and got cuffed upside the head for her trouble. The giant splashed through the water, bringing his captive to Amy's cage where he threw her in and slammed the door. The metallic clash echoed shrilly around the high ceilings and concrete walls, the sound in her ears nothing compared to the headache Amy felt explode behind her eyes.

Cassandra. Angry, frightened, radiating, Cassandra who would drag her back down into madness. Amy snarled at her cage-mate and pushed herself into the bars at her back. The witch looked at her, her eyebrows drew down, and she crawled across the small space towards Amy. Amy tried to push herself up, tried to scoot away, but found her limbs to be conspiring against her. The best she could do was curl in on herself.

"I know you. You're Duncan's friend."

The alto voice might have been soothing to some, but Amy felt increased pounding in her head. "Get away from me."

Cassandra passed a cool hand across Amy's forehead and smoothed her hair. "You're sick! I'm a healer, perhaps -"

"Don't touch me!" Amy snarled and swatted Cassandra's hand away with her one working hand.

"Why do you hate me?"

"You. You're worse than a poorly trained telepath! You can't keep your memories to yourself. You scream everywhere you go! And I've got news for you, sister —"

"Rest. Sleep. Heal."

Cassandra's low voice turned to the buzzing of a thousand hornets, and deep pains stabbed through Amy's temples as her will automatically reacted to a threat. "Keep your tricks off me, Witch, or I will kill you in this cage!" She gasped out and with a great effort, pushed herself up to sit. Amy felt a stab of grim satisfaction as Cassandra's eyes widened and her face blanched. She smiled to herself and let her head rest on the wire behind her. The cold, the steel, the blank hardness beneath her, these would keep her grounded and focused. She would not become a piece of flotsam on the water and drift away.

It wasn't a choice. She had no choice. She drifted. Cassandra couldn't, or wouldn't, control her memories and Amy couldn't stop the assault. She gave up trying and settled for pressing into the corner of their cage, curling into a shivering ball under her blanket, and drifting in and out of sleep and sanity.

The warm voice came back. The warm voice she should know. It called her out of the fog, offered refuge and an anchor, and she grasped it with the little strength she had regained through sleep. The fog thinned and she became aware of her world - first the sound of water splashing against a wall, the smell of salt and fish rising around her. Unforgiving concrete, cruel bars, very little light. The warm voice speaking again, an angry voice responding. She didn't have the strength to sort the words into meaning. The tightness in her chest and twisting of an empty stomach remained the same as the last time she had been self aware. A moan escaped her throat when she forgot and tried to use her left arm. The voices paused.

She should know the warm voice. It was her salvation. The warm voice would protect her. He sat on a low wall above her head, blue lights dancing all around him. He was her anchor. The world around her was more solid with him so close, as if his presence were shielding her from some of the witch's radiating memories. Then words with meaning fell into her ears, riding a wave of anger, guilt, and pain. "MacLeod is dead," he said. The world turned dark and cold and the warm voice splashed away, taking with him her only hold on reality. A whimper escaped, and she curled around herself again.

Untold time later, Amy clawed her way back to the reality of concrete and darkness again. It may have been that the presence of the warm voice returned, or the witch was finally learning to control the way she broadcasted her memories. Amy didn't care, so long as she didn't have to live every moment in that nightmare in the desert.

Multiple splashes moved through the water, approaching the cage, and the witch jumped up, her memories cutting off as if a switch had been thrown. The giant and the scar face stood near the cage. Four other minds made sorting through thought and voice too difficult, then clearly a wave of hope and shock washed through Amy; shock from the warm voice - Adam, she finally recalled - and hope from Cassandra, plus something else she couldn't quite catch, from a source she couldn't identify. She tried to sit up, tried to see what was going on. A new sound made her blood run cold. It occurred to Amy that Cassandra's focus no longer centered on her past but the present and that likely caused the temporary reprieve from her overpowering mind. Or, perhaps the new sound echoing around their cage made any other thought impossible.

A whetstone running across a large blade.

* * *

Whether it was days or mere minutes, Amy had no way of knowing, coming out of her doze to the sound of one man splashing through the water. His presence washed over her and she allowed herself a little hope. Adam - Methos - had come back and alone. Surely that meant it was over. Surely she could go home now. But no, the giant opened the cage with a smile and grabbed Cassandra by the hair and Amy couldn't decide whether or not she was okay with an Immortal she hated - irrationally, possibly, but hated - being murdered without a chance to fight. His hunger and glee made Amy teeter, on the edge of falling back into the abyss of her mind. Something held her, something she couldn't name and didn't care. Something gave her a lifeline to hold onto.

The unnameable lifeline morphed into resignation with a whisper of resolve as Adam put his own sword between Cassandra and the giant. Adam did not put himself into fights. What was Adam - Methos - thinking? Amy cradled her left arm and struggled to her knees in the tiny cage. Anger covering fear and desperation washed through the room when Adam sneered at the other, "I'm not your brother," and the fight began, sword clashing against battle axe. Blades crashing, the men fought through the water, around the cage, and eventually out of the room. Then and only then did the women move.

Cassandra looked at Amy, her eyebrows drawn down. "I will help you out of here, but you have to let me touch you."

Amy glared in return. "Only if you can keep your thoughts to yourself." She doubled over with a coughing fit.

Cassandra took Amy's arm to help her out of the cage and Amy moaned as a wave of hate and yet more memories threatened to take over. She accepted Cassandra's help through the water until they stood on concrete, next to massive concrete pillars. Amy pulled away and leaned against a pillar, breathing heavily, trying to give herself the barest mental shield. "What will you do now?" she asked between gasps.

"Make sure they all die."

"No!"

"Death is better than what they deserve and they won't stop until they die!"

Amy begged, and hated herself for it. "Don't. Not all of them."

Another wave of fresh hate rolled off Cassandra as she answered with an alto hiss, "I will not stop until they are dead." She ran off in the general direction Methos and the other had gone, ignoring Amy's cry.

"No! Oh please, no." Her voice broke and she finished in a whisper, crying. She was too weak, she was unarmed. She had no way to stop Cassandra, no way to slow her down. Unsure what she could possibly do, but unable to not try, she dragged herself after Cassandra.

Endless rows of concrete pillars marched through the building. Smoking torches had been added to some, in random corners fire bowls stood, weakly trying to push back the chill in areas where electricity didn't reach. Amy gave the chill and the fires no mind, focused on finding Adam. She had to stop and rest so often… at one stop, she focused on finding the energy in the Earth beneath her - no easy task as weak as she was and having to reach through concrete - and pulled it in. A dangerous, temporary fix, but she had no other way to carry herself through. Gray pillars, gray concrete floor, black water. Stagger on, more of the same. A chance sound came - metal on metal echoing through another opening, across another space, and then into yet another cavernous area.

Reduced to panting, Amy fell against the wall, and used it as a support to roll around the entry in a moment of silence. On an upper level, across the room, MacLeod and the scar-faced Immortal froze, both looking across the space. Below, at the bottom of a steep gangway the giant and Adam were also frozen, staring back toward MacLeod. For one moment, nothing moved, no sound, no breath stirred the air. Then Methos, the opportunist, broke the spell, grabbed his sword, and attacked. Amy didn't want to watch, couldn't move as the clash of steel on steel echoed once more. Three times the giant blocked Adam's blade and she didn't see how Adam could possibly overpower the larger man. Another block and another and again, then the giant over-reached, Methos slipped under his axe and stood behind him. The giant's great axe pulled him down, exposing the back of his neck, and Methos didn't hesitate.

Amy clamped her eyes shut before Adam's blade connected with the giant's neck; she didn't want to see his face as he killed the other Immortal. She opened her eyes in the terrible silence the second before the Quickening began. Methos stood frozen over the giant's body, sword still extended behind him, and his face unreadable in the dim light. The mist of energy began to rise off the body, seeking the one who released it.

Quickening.

Amy flung herself out of the room and around the wall and huddled on the floor, praying the thick concrete walls would offer some protection from the maelstrom beginning on the other side. She couldn't risk drawing in any more energy and she had no physical strength left to give over to mental shields. Adam and MacLeod both screamed, she could hear the quickening snapping around the room they were in; explosions broke concrete and sent sparks raining to the floor, but it remained on that side of the wall. The voices followed close behind the lightning, the wishes and dreams and learning of thousands of years, released and seeking their new host. The psychic storm focused on the immortals, though it still buffeted Amy as if she were a small boat on the edge of a hurricane. The shrieks and cries pounded at her ears and images flashed into her mind without taking over; it was an invading force, not the conqueror she had been fending off since Cassandra's arrival.

The screaming and buffeting power of the quickening increased and continued to build, going on longer than Amy thought possible. Pressure built behind her eyes until she felt sure her head would explode. She couldn't breathe for the crushing weight taking over her chest and she found herself on the floor, curled in a ball, crying for it to be over.

Then the silence.

So sudden, so complete, she couldn't believe it was real. Her head throbbed, but the killing pain was gone as was the weight from her chest. Cassandra. Where was Cassandra?

Footsteps moved past Amy, through the door, and down a wooden gangplank. Hate and anger accompanied the footsteps and Amy knew exactly where Cassandra could be found. With the last of her strength, she pushed to her knees and used the wall as a support to climb to her feet. She staggered through the doorway and grabbed onto the railing on the plank. Across the room, MacLeod knelt on a high platform and below her, a nightmare. Adam on his knees, sobbing beside the body of the giant and above him, Cassandra with the Giant's axe raised, ready to take Methos' head. Dry wind blew sand across the concrete in swirls and eddies. The sun baked their skin.

"I liked Silas!" Methos' broken cry broke through the rising tide of Cassandra's memories, a wave of grief pushing aside the raging animus and bringing a breath of salvation.

"I will kill you, witch!" Amy could hardly have won a duel with a mouse and couldn't scream, but she filled her voice with death. Cassandra heard and understood. If it took Amy the rest of her life, she would kill Cassandra with her bare hands.

Though he could not yet stand up, MacLeod's voice had the power and authority Amy's did not. "I want him to live!"

Still burning with anger, Cassandra dropped the axe and went back up the ramp. Amy blocked her way at the top, gasping and coughing, defiant to the end.

"He doesn't love you." Cassandra said. "He isn't capable."

"If I ever see you again," Amy gasped, "I don't care where we are or what you're doing. I will kill you."

With a pitying glance down her nose, Cassandra stepped around Amy and left. Alone. Amy staggered down the ramp, legs trembling. She reached for Methos, dropped beside him on the cold, unforgiving concrete, and tried to wrap her arms around his shoulders. The blackness at the edge of her vision surged forward, and she knew no more.

 **METHOS**

Kill or be killed. That's how they all lived. Even he, every day since the day he took his first head. He didn't want to kill any more, but he didn't want to die, either. Silas. Why did Silas have to remain unchanged? Oh, Silas. But he had to make a choice, and the choice to live - and let Cassandra remain alive - meant Silas must die. They fought hard; Silas' long sweeping strokes nearly took his head more than once, but being wiry and fast had been an advantage for three thousand years and continued to be so as he ducked and dodged. When it came to the end, Methos didn't hesitate. Silas over-extended, giving him an opening he would have been foolish to ignore and as much as he had once loved his brother, Methos struck from behind. The sweeping blow jarred his elbows and shoulders, took the head and flung it across the floor.

Methos felt empty.

No glee for being the victor. Not even the bone-deep weariness that came after such a hard fought victory, though that would likely come later. A vast emptiness quickly filled by the swirling rush of the quickening and the overload it brought with it. He could do nothing but scream as his body and mind were lashed with incomprehensible power, could do nothing but ride the wave while being torn to shreds and rebuilt from the core out. Something in this one felt different. One, tiny, sane piece of his psyche realized something in this quickening was different, the rest was far too busy holding onto the core of his being against the onslaught.

Silence. Somebody was sobbing in the silence. He was sobbing, on his hands and knees, as weak as an infant, and sobbing for his lost friend. "I killed Silas!" He knew Cassandra stood over him, ready - and able - to kill him while he was far too weak to fight back, and he didn't care. For a single moment he welcomed his own final release. Release he would not receive. Amy's voice made it through the fog of energy still working its way through his brain. She tried to scream a threat at Cassandra, but she had no power behind her voice. MacLeod's command stopped Cassandra and she left, tossing Silas' axe to the ground.

Methos stayed on his hands and knees, sobbing in irregular chokes and gasps. A small sound beside him said Amy had somehow made her way from the cage, through the abandoned base, and found him. Now she dropped next to him, her essence nudging for attention at the back of his skull and he couldn't wonder how it happened. Her head rested on his shoulder as she held him tightly. A moment was all the time she had before she slid from his back. He twisted and caught her as best he could, unable to do much more than keep her head from hitting the concrete. He pushed to his feet in an awkward scramble, lifting Amy into his arms at the same time.

More sounds from the general direction of the ramp which he had fallen down. Pressure built at the base of his skull, pushing away the sense of Amy, and he knew the source. MacLeod had finally come down to the main floor and now stood halfway down the ramp.

"Methos."

Methos turned to face MacLeod, Amy cradled in his arms, and his face carefully blank. "Get her to a hospital, MacLeod." He didn't give the Highlander a chance to protest, simply started dumping Amy onto him, forcing Mac to carry her, rather than let her fall to the ground.

"But Methos - "

"I won't leave them for the jackals and Watchers, MacLeod! Get her to a hospital. And then call her brothers. Peter needs to know."


	5. Death Fades Before Me

Author's Note: plain italics still indicates thoughts or telepathy. Because sometimes, it's both.  
[ ] Brackets indicate a memory of

* * *

 **The Horseman and the Elf - Death Fades Before Me**

* * *

 **AMY**

"Tell me you wouldn't punch your own brother to keep him from being beat to death," Joe watched Amy pace the tiny bit of available floor space in her hospital room.

Amy didn't have to think before answering. "Hell, I'd shoot him." She'd done so. Once or twice.

"So what's the problem then?"

Her left arm hung in a sling and her right hand tapped a staccato rhythm against her leg. Two weeks in two hospitals on two continents, with forced rest and her brothers creating her shields, had helped her heal at her usual rate, but the enforced downtime had gone beyond her limits for staying still. Restlessness combined with anxiety quickly turned her into a nightmare patient for Peter and the other doctors. Amy paced the room, pretending she didn't hear Joe. Her trailing tubes and IV lines threatened to turn into a tangled mass of plastic. "Two weeks," she tried to deflect him from that path. "Two weeks and nobody's heard anything? How can you not find him?"

"First, it's not like Watchers are omnipotent. Second, he probably doesn't want to be found. He'll come back."

"How can you be so sure, Joe? After all that happened, how can you know?"

Joe shrugged and tapped his cane on the floor. "Do you love him?"

"Yes, but… Maybe… Sometimes, I… But, I fell in love with Adam, not Methos."

"Isn't he still the same man?"

 _[Revel? Do you still revel in the fear?]_

 _[No. It only brings emptiness and regrets.]_

"No! Yes. I don't know!" Amy wailed and threw her arm in the air. "Joe, is it possible for somebody to become someone completely new? The total opposite of what they were?"

"Every culture has a belief in redemption."

"And I do, too, or thought I did…but — But, why did he vanish?" _Why hasn't he come back to me?_

Joe stared at Amy for a long time. He quit tapping the cane on the floor, and tapped his fingers on it instead. He studied her with a steady quietness and she had a hard time not flinching. "A while back you found yourself trapped and you decided you weren't going to let anyone else be caught up in it. What did you do?"

Amy avoided Joe's eyes. "I tried to make sure he and my brothers couldn't follow."

"And when it was all over, after the dust settled, how did you feel?"

"Not myself." She bowed her head with guilt and whispered the rest of her answer. "And alone."

"You nearly got yourself killed because you thought the lives of people you care about were being threatened. You think maybe, just maybe, he got trapped in the same way?"

 _[He's already demanded I take MacLeod's head.]_

"That is completely…. completely…." Joe didn't move. "Relevant." Amy sighed and her shoulders slumped in defeat. "Dammit, Joe, where do you get off being so wise?"

"I may not be immortal, but I've lived enough to learn a few things." He pushed up off the bed and stepped to Amy. He hugged her around the tangled wires, and kissed the top of her head. "You focus on getting well. Methos will come back when he's ready. Just like you did."

"Right," Amy sighed into his shoulder. She had already waited too long, trapped by her own weakness, paralyzed by stray memories. "Thanks, Joe. I'll see you later."

"Promise you'll actually rest this afternoon."

"I promise." For once, she meant it.

Joe limped out of the room and Amy slumped in her chair, alone with her thoughts. Absently, she massaged at the dull ache forming in her left shoulder.

 _[Yes. Is that what you want to hear? Killing was all I knew. Is that what you want to hear?]_

She could replay the entire scene, every detail sharp and crystal clear, now that she could stop and examine it, no longer trapped in the weakness and raging emotions of that horrible day. She sat in the darkening room, unaware of time passing as she replayed that terrible fight between Methos and MacLeod, forcing herself to examine every word, every expression, searching for the closely guarded secrets they held.

 _[The whole bloody world was different!]_

Did he regret the past, or miss it?

[ _Death on a horse]_

Death he had walked away from, at some point, choosing Life over Death. At least for a time.

 _[It only brings emptiness and regrets.]_

What if, exactly as she had, he had tried pushing them away - as hard as he could - and hoped they had the sense to stay alive. She unconsciously fingered her throat where he had gripped so tightly. The bruises had faded quickly enough, but the ghost of his touch remained. He had plainly told her and, just like MacLeod, she hadn't been listening. His fear lashed out and used anger; trying to drive his friends away for their own protection.

And while she was trapped in the hospital, time kept marching and she feared the ability repair the damage between them had already been lost.

* * *

Three weeks trapped under Peter's careful care couldn't be counted as a total loss, if Amy were honest. The rest, mostly forced by drugs, allowed her physical and mental strength to return, though she suspected Peter of colluding with the other doctors to keep her in place far longer than was strictly necessary. Rest brought strength. Time brought strength. Distance brought strength. And with the help of Chris and Steve, before leaving the hospital, she had been able to begin the delicate work of separating Immortal memories from her own. The memories couldn't be changed, they couldn't be removed, but separation could be created, ensuring Cassandra's - and MacLeod's and Methos', and even the other three Horsemen's - memories wouldn't cause flashbacks during her waking hours. Separation brought sanity and sanity brought a starting point to reclaiming ownership of her mind. And, as long as she was being honest with herself, she had to admit the work of regaining her mind would have been far too draining to attempt on her own without their help and without Peter's constant, watchful eye.

All the guys knew precisely what she would do the second Peter declared her strong enough. They didn't encourage it, but neither did they try to dissuade her and she loved them all for it. Even Peter, who didn't like the idea of his sister with an Immortal. He wanted her to stay home until they found a way to completely remove every one of the false memories. Instead, one morning over breakfast, he looked at Amy and said, "Today might be a good day."

She smiled at him over her coffee cup and sent him a mental hug. Her pack was waiting; she grabbed it and ran for the stable, saddled her horse as quickly as possible, and rode for the highest point on their ranch. The highest point might not have been strictly necessary, but Amy didn't want variables interfering with her success. Without telling Peter what was on her mind, though he had surely guessed, she had determined to try again just as soon as she was deemed strong enough. She and the other five had begun experimenting among themselves just what, exactly, they could do with their psychic connections. If her hunch were correct…

Amy stopped the horse with a light touch, enjoying the view from the ledge. Brown and gray rocks spilled down the mountain under their feet, breaking up the expanse of green that spread below. Energy tingled in her blood and sang in the very air around her and she smiled. It was good to be at peace in her own head for the first time in a long time, even if it were temporary. She set up a small, comfortable camp, and sat on the mountain meditating, searching for two days. If she and her brothers shared a connection that let them speak to each other, feel what was going on with the others… Well, Amy saw no reason that little trick couldn't be turned into something of a homing device and she saw no reason to not use it to find Adam, even if it turned out that her connection to him were a different nature.

The whisper of his being resided deep in the back of her mind, near where she could find her brothers, but separate and distinct. She coaxed it forward, cradled it, begged it to give her a direction to follow. A general sense, a calling of sorts, would be enough. She just needed a starting point.

It worked.

Not to Tibet, not even a Buddhist monastery in the States, her instinct pulled her almost directly east, always east. Out of her mountains, across the States, she continued east, the pull never weakening, even passing through populated areas, the pull continued, strengthened, stayed with her. East and more east to a small cloister of Cistercian monks nestled in the Canadian forrest. Amy trusted the prompting in her head that pulled her toward the stone buildings, but still could not believe her eyes. She laughed and shook her head as she climbed out of her car. She couldn't help but be surprised.

The monks welcomed her, only to have Methos refuse to do so. Amy put her hand on her hips and glared at his door. Of all people, he should know better. She sat herself down and refused to leave, knocking every thirty minutes until he relented.

At dusk on the third day, one of the monks came by and motioned for Amy to follow, which she did without question. She carried her pack and followed quietly as her guide led her through halls, outside, across the courtyard, to an isolated cabin under a stand of evergreen trees. The monk pushed the door open to reveal a single room containing a table, two stools, and Methos. Amy smiled at the monk, silently thanking him for the comforting hand on her shoulder before he stepped away and left them alone.

Methos remained seated at the table, pale skin standing out against the shadows of the cabin, gold flecks flashing in the hazel of his eyes, and the pale blue and silver light she'd come to associate with him…gone, as she suspected it might be. Having her brain apparently re-wire itself every time there was a major event was getting tiring, but one of her newer gifts hadn't been taken away and it made Amy very glad. The sense of his being wrapped around her, comforting in its familiarity, while cold distance rolled from him directly. He was keeping himself closed to her, carefully, purposefully.

Amy blinked, adjusting from the sunlit outdoors to the small, dark room before she closed the door. Or perhaps she was buying herself time to fight back a sudden surge of Cassandra's memories, something she hadn't had to deal with for nearly two weeks. When Methos motioned at the other side of the table, she obeyed.

* * *

 **METHOS**

They sat in silence, the table between them, neither sure how to begin. Amy held her hands in her lap, head slightly bowed, and eyes downcast. Methos had a flash of guilt. She'd lost weight to the point of being gaunt - _my fault_. Shadows lay under her eyes − _my fault_. Her left arm rested in a sling - _my fault_.

"It's not your fault. All this is because I spent too much time telling myself I wasn't sick and pushing..." Amy trailed off. "Sorry, I know better than —"

"Has that little trick gotten worse?"

"Not really. I just have to actually work at blocking, like when I was a kid." She lapsed back into strained silence, picking at her fingers in her lap.

"Because of the Quickenings?"

"Partially. It'd started way back with Kalas. I traded seizures for being more likely to pick up 'loud' thoughts. Mostly, this is because I let myself get so sick."

They fell into silence again until, with a deep breath, Amy moved first. She slowly pulled a ring - a simple, silly really, gift from him - off her finger. Methos swallowed. He would make himself understand why she was giving it back; a simple gift perhaps, but a reminder. A reminder of the monster she had tried to call a friend. A reminder of what he really was. A reminder of what he had allowed to happen to her.

But she didn't give it back. She had, indeed, pulled it from her ring finger, but had moved it instead to the first knuckle of her first finger where she could more easily stare at the claddagh design. Her eyes focused on the ring, both her thumbs caressed the carving as she spoke, never taking her eyes from the ring. "I insisted once or twice that we are similar —"

"Changed you mind, did you?" Methos snipped. He had long ago admitted - to himself - she had been uncomfortably right about the one struggle they both shared. And yet so very wrong.

"It was naive to assume I could really understand." She gave a derisive snort aimed at herself. "I can expect to live a couple hundred years and somewhere… I must have been kidding myself that five thousand isn't all that different. I finally saw. Really saw and…"

He crossed his arms and leaned back from the table. His hooded eyes studied Amy carefully. "Do you really believe it's safe for you to be here now?"

"Maybe not." Her fingers continued worrying the ring. "But didn't you risk your own well-being to give me refuge? How can I do any less?"

"I don't want you here out of a sense of duty!" He sneered down his nose at her and buried the short stab of guilt at the hurt that flashed through her eyes. They both had wanted so much more and now all they had was a table and a nightmare truth between them.

Amy clenched her hands in her lap and gritted out, "I would hope you would know by now that I may do a lot of things I find to be irritating, boring, and sometimes distasteful because they are my duty, but friendship is not one of them. I would certainly never be a friend to anyone if it were distasteful to do so!"

Methos felt a surge of anger rise and growled, "Do you think that you are so special you can accept what I've done? Do you really believe you are so good that you can accept what is in my past, and accept me as I am, when no one else can?"

"I thought I had." Amy's voice carried an uncharacteristic sad note. "I believe in redemption. And if I believe I can change how can I deny that of anyone else?"

Methos' eyes narrowed. "How very magnanimous of you."

"That's not what I'm saying!" Amy's eyes flashed as she slapped a hand on the table. Methos waited as she visibly calmed her wounded pride before continuing. "It's the past. It was. It's done and it's unchangeable."

"So, you came to let me know I'm forgiven," Methos pushed all the scorn he could gather into his voice and pulled his lips back as he sneered at her.

Amy surged forward, her fingers held like a claw aimed at his neck before she clenched her fist and slammed it on the table in front of him. Her eyes flashed still, but not her eyes; something foreign moved behind them. "Dammit, Methos, no!" She stopped and focused on her hand, slowly relaxing her fingers and peeling them out of the fist. She dropped back to the stool and scrubbed her hand over her face. Methos remind still and silent; living stone on the other side of the table. He waited until, with visible effort, she forced her eyes to reconnect with his. "I didn't find you so I could forgive you. It's not mine to forgive." He started to pull his lips back to the sneer of mere moments ago, but she didn't stop. "I came to ask to _be_ forgiven."

They stared at each other across the table. Every doubt, every insecurity moved swiftly through Amy's eyes, unable to hide anything, including the new…something. Methos wondered if she knew what had changed. Did she know she _had_ changed? He kept his face a mask of nothing, his control complete for the moment. No hitch in breathing, not a twitch of an eyelash would give him away to her. Neither moved.

"What for?" He didn't mean for the weariness to slip out in his voice. He didn't want the pity flashing into her eyes.

"For a time, I thought you hadn't really changed at all. Then, I thought you gave back into the darkness. Either way, I thought you were lost." She stopped herself with a sudden intake of breath and bit her lips before whispering, "And I'm sorry."

Methos cocked his head to the side and tried to read her eyes when they flashed to his face, but the moments were too short.. "But you came to my apartment. And you had Cassandra's memories then. You said —"

"At that point it was sensations and blur; a complete overload where I couldn't sort out details. It was when you two were face to face in the dojo. That's when I realized what - _who_ \- I'd been seeing and I knew what she was saying was true. That she wasn't some random lunatic - well, I still think she's crazy, but that's beside the point - that I was seeing _you_ in her memories."

Methos made his voice soft. Not innocent; he couldn't pretend to be that anymore. "You still came back."

"I suppose I wanted to know… I wanted to know that you hadn't been waiting, biding your time until you could return to that life. I wanted reassurance that… I still wanted you to fit into my… box, I guess."

"But?" Methos prompted her to continue. He didn't know what drove him to keep prodding, rather than let it lie. With anyone else he would have walked away, leaving it to be their problem. Perhaps, this time, it was more important that everything be said.

"What I saw was how much you had thrived on the fear and the blood, how deeply you had felt the joy of death - and it was so much more than I ever imagined. And I then saw that Kronos was working to reawaken that part of you, was reminding you of the taste, the smell, the power, the pleasure —" Her voice had risen in pitch as she continued, every word a memory hammering at both their minds. Methos watched her stop and swallow, regaining control of herself, before continuing in her normal, lower pitch. "It scared me."

 _[Tell me you haven't missed it!]_

 _[Yes. Oh, yes.]_

"It still scares me," he whispered.

She lifted her head and smiled at him in that annoying, knowing way she had, and whispered, "me too." She stared at the ring again, seeming to be debating herself. Methos waited patiently. He had time. He had nothing but time here on holy ground. After several minutes of the internal war playing across her face, she continued. "But that's not… It's… It's not that I have her memories, it's that they tried to become mine. After being trapped in that cage with her, and unable to block anything… I'm not sure they haven't." She shuddered.

 _My fault._ What could he say? He folded in on himself, shrinking back from the table. Amy plowed on, trying to explain something she seemed to barely understand, yet needed him to. She twisted the ring on her finger and sniffed in an oddly familiar way. Just before she spoke, Methos realized she had unconsciously imitated his own sniff. For a moment, brief as a camera flash, he wanted to laugh. Now was not the time.

"It wasn't just her memories coming at me. Her emotions, physical sensation, the - it all came. All at once. Everything that was done to her." She lifted her eyes, met his, and swallowed hard. "Everything _you_ did to her."

He turned his eyes away.

She spoke again. "My only - The only time I -" Methos glanced over to see bright pink spots glowing high on her cheeks and her voice suddenly seemed paralyzed. She drew in another deep breath and forced herself to continue, staring at the floor, unable to look at him. "My only experience with…has been the once, er twice, and um... Well. You. Then to be forced to relive her…her time as a slave as if it were actually me..." The final words threw themselves out in a rush and her face turned bright red. Amy finally turned her head just enough to look at Methos through the curtain of hair that had fallen across her face. "Well, it was an experience I've never had to deal with."

Methos raked a hand through his hair and expelled the air he hadn't realized he was holding in. He knew exactly what moved in the back of Amy's eyes. Cassandra. And Cassandra hated him with a passion that would never quench. Amy had that same hate in her now. "Gods, Amy, I -"

She shook her head back and forth. "It's not your fault. It's - it got all jumbled together, her memories and mine, and we're - the guys and I. They have to help - we're not quite done sorting them all out." She hugged her own arms, he head bent under a strange load of guilt.

Methos satisfied himself with studying the top of her head, waiting to hear what she wanted, fearing to hear what she expected from him. He decided to break the silence first. "I'll go -"

"No!" Her head shot up and she reached toward him in a rush. "No," she whispered. "That's not why I'm telling you. I refuse to lose our friendship because of someone else."

Methos allowed himself to relax back against his seat, not sprawling, but not quite as stiff as he had been.

"Methos," she left her hand between them on the table. "You're my 'safe' friend." He snorted and she smiled; the irony couldn't be denied. "When we met, you saw me at my worst; sick, out of control, scared, and angry. You've seen me kill. You already know me inside and out as no one but my brothers do and I wish — I just… no matter what, I rely on and treasure your friendship and I can't lose you."

"The Quickenings aren't settling well. It feels like I'm balancing and I could still be lost." He had to force the words past his teeth. Yes, five weeks, and he still fought the remnants of the strange, double Quickening. He had no frame of reference for this experience any more than Amy had for hers.

He glanced up to see Amy blinking rapidly. "Oh, Methos," she whispered so sadly. What could she really say? They were still so very different, he knew. Amy turned her good hand over, and extended it, palm up, across the table. An invitation to grab onto something solid.

An invitation he had to consider for a long moment before taking her hand with one of his. He felt the tremor before she could repress it, saw the flash of fear in her eyes before it could be banished. He was so tired. He was so alone. Then she squeezed his fingers, trapping his hand inside hers instead of the other way around. She wouldn't let him pull away.

"Come back with me."

Four words. Only four words. Did Amy realize what she was asking? He thought he'd heard a whisper behind her words, almost as if she were speaking directly to his mind, but that couldn't be so. But what if that whisper was what she really meant? Dare he ask what it might be? Instead, he focused on her spoken words. "Not yet. It's not safe," he answered.

She opened her mouth, probably to argue as usual, but she gave in and nodded. Methos stood and motioned at the door. She needed to go home. Her home. With her brothers who would take care of her. Not that she would let them. There was one question, only one thing he wanted to know. He asked as she stepped outside, forcing her to turn back to listen. Amy stood framed by the door, lit by a flare of golden evening light which pierced through the trees and set her curls to blazing. "What if you had been right? What did you think you were going to do?"

Her eyes drifted away as she pondered the question for a minute before she shrugged as she always did. "Stop Kronos. Stop you. Whatever I had to do."

"What would you have done?" _How far would you have gone? Could you have brought yourself to kill me?_

"I don't know. I still can't be sure."

"And Cassandra?" Methos asked.

"I wanted to kill her," she admitted. "Still do, most days. Maybe I'm just using her as a scape goat. Not being able to block her made me so angry, and how strongly her memories were pounding at me — But, it's getting easier to know which memories are hers, and which are mine and soon I'll be able to box hers all away and I won't have to give them space in my head anymore."

Without thinking, Methos stepped forward until only inches separated them. He wanted to pull her in, hold her close. Did he need the reassurance of physical touch, or did she? He made himself simply take her hand once more. This time she had better control over the reflexive flinch, and though he expected it, it still hurt. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to live through that. I'm sorry that —"

Amy pulled her hand out of his and placed her fingers against his lips, shushing him. Perhaps she was right and it didn't need to be said. Her fingers started to brush along his jaw and then quickly fell to her side. For a moment she stood, her elbows in his hands and looked as if she might say something more. Only for a moment, then she pulled away and stood with at least three steps between them. They remained, it seemed like an eternity, just outside the doorway together, silent, hoping to regain what had been, afraid it was gone.

Methos finally broke the silence. "Can we be friends again?"

 _[I'm just a guy…]_

Amy's lips twitched and Methos couldn't resist a small smile, giving her own words back to her. She pretended to think about it, and answered the way he had - a lifetime ago, it seemed. "I didn't know we'd stopped."


	6. Forgiveness

**Forgiveness**

"Come with me," she had said instead of 'I love you' as she had meant. _Why am I still afraid to say it?_

Time. They both had needed more, apparently. Time for her head to become hers and hers alone again. Time to get her body back to condition. Time.

Time passed to the point it felt like an eternity. Time enough had passed. Probably. She had already stayed at the ranch far longer than she could normally stand before her skin started to crawl with the need to be gone, so of course, she'd decided to follow him. It was past time to see if the walls, wards, and protections she, Chris, and Steve had created in her head would hold.

In all honesty, it was a rotten excuse, but it was easier. To be honest with ones self is the most difficult honest of all. And to use a weak excuse was far easier than admitting she didn't want to be half a world away from _him_.

Perhaps, since she stood at his door with a stomach full of butterflies and shaking hands, fighting the urge to run, enough time hadn't passed after all.

Methos almost missed the gentle rapping on his door. If he hadn't been a mere feet away, reading with a leg thrown over the arm of the seat, he wouldn't have noticed the faint rattle coming from the glass in his door. There had been no warning sensation at the back of his neck, so it must be a mortal, but his neighbors here always left him alone. Opening the door revealed the last person he expected to see.

"Amy?" He hadn't tried contacting her yet, let alone telling her he was back in Paris, how did she know?

"You have some extra floor space a person could crash on?" She turned just enough to reveal that she carried her laptop and an over-stuffed gym bag.

Methos knitted his eyebrows together and stepped aside, motioning for her to enter. As she moved past him, the stench of smoke rose to his nostrils and he noticed the singed hairs standing out of her braid.

"Amy?"

"I'm fine," she waved a hand. "My building burned down this morning."

"Amy!" He stalked around her until they were face to face. She dropped her bags to the floor and puffed out an exhausted sigh. At only six p.m. she had dark circles under her eyes and soot smudges on her face he had missed in the shadows of the entryway.

"Ad - Methos, you've got to expand your vocabulary." She gave him a wobbly smile and pushed a loose curl away from her face. "Seriously, I'm fine. Madame Martin needed help getting out, then we wound up having to wait on the roof until the last second. I was seriously considering throwing her to the next building when the fire brigade finally showed up. They didn't act too happy, but I don't know what their problem was."

Methos smiled and shook his head. Her front, that stubborn, wry front almost covered the shadow of doubt in her eyes. Almost. Perhaps she was working a little harder than normal to cover it. That shadow, moment, though, was enough to make his stomach sink into a dip of guilt. How subdued, how abnormally quiet she had been in the days before Kronos appeared. How sick had she been and he hadn't realized?

A fit of coughing made Amy double over trying to catch her breath. Methos was instantly back in the present, holding her shoulders without thinking. "Pneumonia not gone?"

She waved her hand in the air. "Just a lungful of smoke. Anyway, I could sure use a shower and an extra shirt, if you have one…?" Amy's voice trailed away and she suddenly couldn't quite look Methos in the eye.

"You stopped to grab your bags but didn't get clothes?" He gently teased. They could do this. He could do this. They could do normal. Their normal.

"Priorities, man. Armor, weapons!" Amy grinned back and Methos saw the relief flit across her face ahead of her smile. Yes, they could do this. "I always have a change in the bag, but I'm going to need those tomorrow."

Methos pointed her to the armoire and the bathroom, then took himself to the kitchen to dig out food for when she finished. He almost didn't have enough time. Amy was out of the shower and back in the kitchen in under fifteen minutes.

"You could have taken longer, there's plenty of hot water."

"It was enough."

Methos turned around to hand her the plate he had prepared and fumbled it, barely keeping the food from hitting the floor. Her face burning deep red from her neck to her scalp, Amy stood beside his counter wearing only the large towel she clutched to her chest.

She asked, "Do you have anything for burns?" Turning, she revealed that while she held the towel tightly to her chest, it draped down in the back, offering a lovely view of skin and curves and red, raw skin dotted with angry, purple blisters and a few black blotches.

Methos set the plate down and pointed Amy toward her food. "You're going to be lucky if I have anything around here."

"I guess immortals don't need first aid in their bug-out bags, do they?"

"Not usually." He moved a few bottles around in the back corner of a tiny cabinet in the kitchen. "Adam Pierson, though, lucky for you, is a very careful guy and keeps a basic kit. Somewhere." He glanced over to make sure Amy ate while waiting on him. She moved carefully and her breathing was shallow, but she ate. Slowly. He moved one more glass and spotted the small box he hoped for deep in the recesses of the corner cabinet. "Found it. Come on."

Amy sat on the edge of the love seat and leaned forward, hiding her face behind her long hair, while Methos shifted and muttered, unable to find a good working angle. Sitting next to her, he couldn't fold his long arms around to easily treat her whole back. Sitting sideways, he tried to tuck one leg along the back of the couch, but applying salve with his knee touching his nose wasn't going to work, either. Amy tried to help by moving to the floor, but then he couldn't easily reach as far down her back as he needed. Methos gave up and with an awkward wave, directed her to sit where there would be space and they would both be comfortable. The bed.

He knelt on the mattress behind her to inspect the blisters before he dared touch them. "Amy, do you know what you have going on back here?"

"Well, I imagine some good sore spots, since I got hit by a few falling bits. But it's stinging more than bruises should."

Methos shook his head and gently probed the edges of the blisters. "You're covered in burns. What the hell were you doing? Why didn't you get treated?"

"I told you. Getting Madame Martin out. She had no idea there was a fire, and she wouldn't have made it. OW! Suddenly, I think I know why Joe didn't appreciate having you for his doctor!" Amy shot over her shoulder at him. "How often did you put this crap on him?" She hissed.

"Never."

She turned around far enough Methos had to pause in his work. "Really?"

Methos held his greasy hands away from his sweater. "Turn back. He got shot full of holes, you stayed in a burning building. There's a world of difference in treatment."

Amy hissed again and bit on the towel. Methos kept working. "Did you get these going back for your stuff?"

"Mdm. Martin and I had to go up and get out through my place because the fire was below. The problem was getting out of her flat under the blanket. We couldn't both fit and I'll heal. She won't." She groaned into the towel, reflexively pulling away from Methos' hands. "I wish I'd managed to dodge a little better. It might take a few days longer than I thought if you think it's that bad. Still, better than Mdm. Martin burning. You remember her, right? She is such an awesome lady. And would you believe up on the roof, she actually slapped me? We were able to get ahold of one of her grandkids, though, so her family knows, but everything is gone."

Methos smiled and let her ramble. It was as a better distraction than he could have invented. Amy groaned into the towel and he pulled his hands away from her back until she started talking again.

"During The War, her husband got out of Paris and joined the British army and she joined the Resistance. After the war they adopted orphans since they never had their own kids. She had a husband and five kids, and herself, all dealing with war trauma… She really is one tough old bird, and sharp as a tack, but practically deaf so I guess she never heard the alarms. And the building went up pretty quickly, I think the fire started on the floor below her, otherwise we would have been able to get out."

"When she hit you, did she use her purse or umbrella?"

"Funny. I guess I was in a flashback. She up and slapped me out of it."

Methos' fingers stilled and his mouth dried. "Bordeaux?" His voice croaked. He had to know. Amy shifted around and her hand rested on his arm.

"No," she said. "I don't get nightmares from Bordeaux. It was before, when I got this."

Methos raised his eyes to see her touching the thick, pink scar at her left shoulder. He searched Amy's face carefully. Did she tell the truth, or was she trying protect his feelings with a lie? Did he dare hope the glimmers of Cassandra had finally left her eyes? Did he dare?

"Turn." He delicately moved her shoulders to turn her back around. "What happened that still gives you nightmares?" He covered the third degree burns and the worst of the blisters in gauze. He didn't have the supplies available for her entire back.

Amy kept the towel between her teeth. "I thought I was finally past that. I asked Joe once how long it took for flashbacks to stop. He never did answer."

"You're not answering, either."

"It was fire." She drew in a shuddering breath before whispering, "they were just children."

Methos placed the last piece of tape. "Done. Get dressed, finish eating. I'll warm it up again." He clambered off the mattress, stiff from kneeling for so long.

Amy reached for an assisting hand to help pull her up and he obliged. She stood in front of him, straight and stiff, and whispered, "thank you."

She disappeared into the bathroom before Methos fully realized how tall she stood. Barefoot, the top of her head came past his chin.

It took no small amount of arguing to get Amy in the bed. How she thought she would sleep on the floor, or even the love seat, with her blistered back and her face already gray with pain and exhaustion, he had no idea. Methos finally got her to lay down on the mattress and sat across the room, reading.

By 8:00 p.m., Amy was asleep on her stomach. Methos took the chance to slip out and buy enough supplies, including pain relievers, to treat her for several days. He was gone less than twenty minutes and returned to find everything exactly as when he left. Including Amy.

At 11:30 Methos dug out a heavy blanket and folded it into something resembling a soft spot on the floor next to his mattress. If Amy tried to get up she wouldn't be able to sneak past him.

Around 2:30 in the morning, Methos woke to the sound of a whimpering dog. As he pushed through the grogginess, the whimpers turned into a strangled cry and Amy threw herself off the bed and practically on top of him. On her hands and knees on the floor, she shuddered and gasped until she found her way out of the dream world. Methos knelt in front of her, unmoving and silent, resting his hand over one of hers on the floor. A touch to let her know she wasn't alone.

"I'm okay," she whispered.

"No, you're not."

"But I will be. At least now I know that, eventually, I will be." With an escaped gasp of pain, she shifted her weight and slid back onto the mattress and rested her elbows on her knees while hugging herself. Her hair still covered her face. "Do you still have nightmares?"

Methos shifted so he once again knelt directly in front of Amy, mere inches between them. "Sometimes. Eventually, you replace what caused them with a new life, and they'll fade away. It may take longer than you like, but it happens."

"And then a smell or a sound, and you're there and the nightmare past is your present," she whispered.

Methos chanced resting his hand on her knee and gave it a gentle squeeze. Amy pushed her hair out of her face and placed her hand on his. Her haunted eyes met his for a moment before settling on their fingers. She shuddered and drew in a deep breath.

"We had made it out of the compound and were almost to the van. It was my turn to provide cover and I saw a guy pop up on the roof. Before I could aim, he fired a grenade at a passing school bus and it exploded like… It was massive, but some survived that and they were screaming, and the fire… And I couldn't do a thing about it. Then…today…all I can smell is burning bodies and I still hear the echoes and —" Her voice broke.

He knew the sound and the smell far too well. It had invaded his dreams, too, for many years. More years than Amy had been alive.

"I guess I keep telling myself it will end. Eventually. That I don't need, don't have to —" She rolled her wrists over and stared at her arms. "I don't have to try to make it stop. I can make it to the other side."

Amy finally raised her eyes to his and studied his face carefully. Methos held his gaze steady, still afraid that at least a portion of the clouds in her eyes came from Bordeaux, no matter how much she may deny it. Yet, here she was, coming to him for help. Already trusting him, even though she'd been forced to see everything Cassandra had experienced. "You don't have to fight through it alone, you know," he said. Amy smiled and nodded her head once. When the silence stretched to the point of discomfort, Methos broke it. "How's your back?"

"Manageable right now," she answered. Amy opened her mouth, hesitated, closed her mouth, and then opened it again. She finally whispered, "I… I… I've missed you."

In the quiet space between them, her words fell clearly on ears desperate to hear them. He turned his hand over and clasped her fingers. "I missed you, too," Methos admitted. He continued, surprising himself, "It was good to know you were waiting."

She didn't say anything, just reached out and slid her fingers along his jaw. He caught her hand and held it in place. She seemed to stop breathing and Methos couldn't tell if he had or not. He searched her eyes and they remained clear pools of calm reassurance; nothing moved behind them that didn't belong. Amy was Amy. Her lips parted and Methos wanted nothing more in that second than to remember her taste.

And she tasted the same as she had that first night. Fresh soap, wildflowers, and sunshine tinged with a hint of blood and violence. If he cared to think about it, he may have realized the latter two were also intrinsic to his own taste, but he didn't care. He cared that she was in his arms, warm and alive and even shy again. He cared that his fingers could trace her skin, scars and all, and she wanted to explore him in return. He cared about the gasp of pain when he forgot about her burns and laid her on her back.

And he cared very much when the tingling of another immortal crawled up his neck. In a flash, Methos disentangled himself from Amy, grabbed his sword from beside the bed and jumped behind the nearby pillar. Behind him he heard a petulant mutter of, "Oh, that's just not fair," followed by the click of a safety being switched off.

Methos glanced across the room to where Amy stood with the metal stairs between her and the door. Other than himself, she was the only person he knew that would put a gun under their pillow at someone else's house.

Then the voice came through the door, yelling Methos' name into the night. Amanda.

"I'll shoot her for you, if you like," Amy called softly, making Methos smile - but only a little - as he hurried to the door and jerked it open before Amanda woke the entire neighborhood.


End file.
